


Threaded heavens, breakable Gods

by reddening_heart



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddening_heart/pseuds/reddening_heart
Summary: Of one night, Theseus, and the labyrinthine qualities of feeling.Because it’s one thing for people to vanish into the dark, and another entirely when they leave behind blood and poisoned feelings.





	1. Theseus

**Author's Note:**

> Idek man

Kurosaki Ichigo comes awake to the knowledge that there is someone else in the room. The sound of the rain pouring hard outside clashes against the cheerful jingle of his TV. It's yet another rerun of a cheesy 90s sitcom that only one person would ever choose to watch at 2AM on a Thursday. He sighs and turns to her. Rukia’s soaking wet and curled up in his chair, far too comfortable for someone who just broke into his home. As she’s been doing for the past months. “Will you ever learn to knock” he drawls. Then he sees the two glasses of rum aligned on the table and says “Oh”. “Tough week”, he says again. She shrugs and reaches for her drink. It’s weird, sitting across a cranky ghost in the middle of the night. 

*

They first meet in a bar. A colorful temple of booze and flickering lights he stumbled upon by mistake. Yet another failure to tell apart what is real and what is not supposed to be. When drunken shadows start dancing and shouting around him, he looks for the closest exit. That’s when he notices her across the room. Cigarette in hand, back against the wall, she notices him too. “You should not be here”, she startles him. She sits next to him, lies against the counter, blows purple smoke on his face. “You’re a human.”

At twenty-two and without warning, Ichigo’s very normal and very human world became overcrowded with faces that shouldn’t be there anymore. Priests, nuns, monks and healers, he met them all to try and make sense of this odd predisposition. As it turns out though, ghosts are real, and ghost busters aren’t. 

Now, he’s stuck navigating between two intertwined dimensions, seeing things – sometimes, often, unspeakable things – and trying to go unnoticed by them. What more this curse entails he does not know for sure; but he can feel danger looming closer and closer, sharp nails clawing at his ragged breath. It’s in the sight of burnt limbs, in the smell of putrid blood that overtook his life.  
But that night Rukia sees him, and her eyes aren’t leaving his. It makes his skin crawl and his heart race. 

“No one usually sees or hears me around here. That or the barman has been ignoring me.” 

She stares again, then smirks. It’s small and a bit crooked. Then she motions the barman for two beers.

“You’re not going to tell on me?” “No,” she takes a sip, “I’d rather talk”. He lights up a cigarette of his own. 

“I’ve got a feeling that you shouldn’t be here either.”

Bravado and faux nonchalance are things he usually wears for the living, but there’s a first for everything. Even for sitting at a bar and talking to a nice deadly dead lady with a strident laughter and a better understanding of Mishima than he’ll ever have. She must find him charming enough though because she keeps asking for more stories, about what he’s seen, what he’s done, how he lives. The thought that she might be some voracious black widow does cross his mind, but he figures it might be the right kind of high note he’d like to leave on. If he ever leaves at all, he reminds himself. Death means little when you witness its limitations on the daily.

“You have to tell me more,” she says again. Then a few drinks later, “Let’s go to your place, I want to try your minibar”. Then his name is the only thing on her lips in the dead of the night.  
At dawn, as she scoots closer, Ichigo ponders on the unlikeliness of her soft skin, on the tangibility of the spirit. He dreams of the beasts he meets, and of his flesh melting and decaying in their mouths. 

“Say, where do souls go?”

The rules seem easy enough: you die, get your memory wiped clean and start again, the most triumphant wash rinse and repeat life has to offer. No heaven or hell, a trampling over death of sorts. The living cannot see the dead; the dead cannot see the living. We coexist in peace, leading parallel lives, without ever having to acknowledge the other side. 

“So what about us?” he asks and stops her in her tracks as she’s about to leave. 

“What about us,” Rukia repeats flatly. “We’re anomalies. Bummers. But at least I get paid for it.”

Because it’s one thing for people to vanish into the night, and another entirely when they leave behind blood and poisoned feelings. Some remember, linger, won’t let go. 

“My job is to make them”. 

*

Ichigo is close to dozing off again as he thinks back on the thin scars that lace her body. His finger traces lazy lines in the air. He has learned the map.

“Wake up. Let’s go dancing. I need to move.”

He sometimes wishes he could do something about this. But there is more to it than he can fathom, and he is confused and absolutely helpless. Absolutely human. Which is actually the same bitter afterthought. He wants to brush off the dark strands of hair falling on her eyes, like he remembers once doing so, but he can’t. Rukia’s standing there in front of him again after a month of absence and there are still appearances to maintain goddamn it.

“Then go.”

She glares and he sighs. He downs his drink and they get moving.


	2. Ariadne

Inoue Orihime is on her way home after a night of epic throat-ending girls night out karaoke, lurching out of the cab with as much dignity as she can musters, when she spots him. Kurosaki’s strolling under his umbrella, lanky and grim, yet otherworldly handsome. An unpopular opinion though. “He’s weird”. “He’s too shy and quiet.” “He keeps zoning out.” “He doesn’t look clean”. Is what all her friends say, and to an extent that might be true. He remains a total mystery. But she can’t help being fascinated by his smile - or lack thereof.

*

She talks to him for the first time exactly four weeks and a half after classes begin. Oh, she’s noticed him before, sure. There’s tragic predictability in her taste: she likes them tall, with some nice stubble and, most importantly, an aura that says: “I don’t have time for this shit”. She’s watched him in Lit class, cool and composed. Cultured enough to shut down any teacher attempts to make him pay more attention. 

Orihime finds him going back and forth near the gates of their campus that day, seemingly lost, distressed even. Vulnerability tends to fire up something in her so she reaches out. Asks him if he needs anything. The poor boy looks pale, like he has just seen a ghost or worse. 

She drags him to a nearby pub, because fresh pints of beer can heal anything. (Best lesson college has taught her!) And as his shoulders lose their strain, he smiles and thanks her. It’s the faintest curve of his lips, and it never quite reaches his eyes. Still, she is pleasantly surprised to discover he can small talk just fine. She asks him about things she’s been curious about – socially acceptable, non-creepy questions for a lovely first encounter. What he thought of their latest class on Mishima, what he does for fun, if he’s seeing anyone.

Soon enough though, she realizes that nothing affects him much. Nothing affects the laid-back, disinterested composure he wears so well. Kurosaki tells her everything she wants to know, and doesn’t reject her small touches - subtle attempts to tie herself to him. It’s a masterful routine she has perfectly crafted over the years. 

Yet he doesn’t reciprocate either, and she feels as if facing a one-way mirror. The glass is pristine and imposing; he stands behind and mouths: “Keep out”. 

The problem with Orihime is that she needs to be needed. She thinks: all I need is a chance, and I could show him. Although she’s not a special girl, she could still be there. They could play paperdoll and even be something.

But Kurosaki stands up to leave when she invites him over to her apartment, which is just a few blocks away. Not without thanking her again and giving her a smile, of course. Another one that doesn’t match the dark of his eyes. He looks aged and fresh out of true smiles. Instead, he offers a crafted but cracked imitation.

*

Kurosaki is like a riddle, she muses again as she instinctively starts to follow him under the rain. He walks at a steady pace and she can hear him mumble to himself. More relaxed than usual, Orihime notices, and wonders if that’s how he is when by himself. Away from prying eyes and demanding glares. Tonight, she’s solving the mystery.

As he turns to a left corner, she waits a minute and follows. She finds herself alone in a dead end, with no doors or lane in sight. “Am I drunker than I thought?” She retraces her footsteps and looks around confused, but there is nothing but rain and an empty street.

When Orihime gets home at last, she thinks that maybe Kurosaki is not that much of a mysterious, charming stranger. Sadness in a beautiful boy is nothing out of the ordinary, people are not myths. But what else is there? Maybe the teal and glimpses of grey she catches are all there is. But maybe they hide golden stars. Maybe they could be everything.


	3. Labyrinth

“I finally found you.” He turns to find a familiar face, one that has been chasing him in for the past four weeks. Her velvet suit shines under the neon lights of the club. Kuchiki Rukia is the perfect angel of death, eyeing her wiggling prey before the lashing out.

“You are here to kill me.” She tilts her head. “Oops, bad choice of words. To dispose of me,” he scoffs. If Death is merely a part of life, what does it mean to completely cease to exist? The young girl standing next to him – god, she’s so fucking young! another lifetime and she would have been his daughter –, she’s there to give him answers. He finds he’s not ready to hear them just yet.

“Ichimaru Gin, I have been assigned to protect you.” 

He pauses then taunts. “From what?” 

The firm grip on his shoulder startles him: it is a warning. It stirs something primal in him. Something raw that demands to be fed. He looks around, at the vibrating mass of souls stomping their feet along the rhythm. He inhales sharply and makes a run for it. 

*

While they were looking for him, he was looking for her. Rangiku. Ran, his pretty little white orchid. He’s searched everywhere: their old flat, her sister’s house, the small bar she used to work at. He even went and thrashed her boss’ apartment in hopes of finding her cozying up there, granting him vindication at long last. But she simply vanished.

Gin is perfectly aware he lost himself long before getting hit by that car and waking up a hollow shell on the road. Surely no one ever hurt her like he did. Then again, no one loved her as much either. And maybe, just maybe, it was unavoidable then: she was – is, she still is the love of his life. And he has never known any other way than to love and combust instantly and take everything down with his fire. 

And it’s not that he wanted to hurt her either. She too, was too young. He would tell her every time: leave the moment I cross a line, the very first second I hurt you. Please please please, let go, and I’ll let go too. There’s no pleasure in spending someone else’s love and using them up, but more than a regretful fool, he’s always been an unapologetic coward.

Still, she stayed. She stayed through the morning parades of strangers, the disappearances and silly games. The more she’d hold onto him, the more he’d push and dissect how much it would take to wear her down. To make her pack her bags and slam the door.

He never expected to go first.

*

Gin pushes through the crowd, through lonely girls and drunken men, through doors and roofs and walls. He runs and runs until his feet draw him to a familiar place. He stands in front of an abandoned mall, the one they’d sneak in with cheap beers and expensive fags to look at the stars. An eternity ago. Ran would put a slow song on and start twirling; he sucks at dancing so he’d just watch her in silence and hum. 

He sits on the floor and closes his eyes. He soaks in the memory, tries to remember the most important ones. But every memory of Ran is unique. And special. And perfect. Every memory of her is his favourite.

Footsteps echo in the night and he doesn’t flinch. He’s drained.

“You really need to stop running away, sir”.

“I won’t now. Come have a sit with me kid”.

Kuchiki Rukia looks at him with wariness but complies, and he takes his first real look at the girl beside him. She’s all soft face and bright eyes, but there’s something unnerving in her every movement. She’s too young and too old all at the same time.

“You remind me a bit of my Ran. But you’re really just like me.”

“Hm,” she just says. “Why are you looking for her sir? What would it change?”

He realizes he doesn’t know. He’s been chasing her for so long; having people try to prevent him from doing so has become the main motivator. Would he apologize, and for what? Would he try to hold her and tell her he loves her ? He doesn’t know what to do to redeem himself, and isn’t sure forgiveness is something he is even looking for.

“Not much, I think. I just need to know she’s doing fine,” he finally says, half-expecting her to reveal her wings and grant him his deepest wish. But she’s an agent of death, not his guardian angel.

“She’s mourning. But you have not made it easy for her. The more you linger, the harder it’ll get.”

“She’s never liked easy. She’s feisty. She’s strong.”

“Then you know she’ll be fine someday. But you have to let her go now.” 

He sighs, both of relief and disappointment. He’s feeling honest enough with himself not to be disgusted by it, too. 

“That’s good.”

She hands him a smoke and lights up another for herself. 

“So what happens now?” he breathes heavily.

“You’ve done your mourning too. But I know you can feel it now, the hunger. It’s erratic and it’s consuming you. It’s time to move on...”

“...before it’s too late? Late for what. What am I turning into?” he asks, suddenly noticing the red on his knuckles and nails. He’s hurt people on his way out, just now, tearing through them like paper dolls. The realization makes him dizzy. Is he nothing but instincts now?

“Your sadness is overwhelming you, sir. I’m just here to help keep you safe.” She hesitates. “If you let me, I will erase all your memories of this life. You’ll get to start again. They call it a ‘brand-new beginning rather than the corruption of the soul’. A good bargain if you ask me.”

He lets out a long whistle. “Some deep shit right here.”

She squeezes his arm just lightly. “Sir, I don’t want you to harm yourself or others. I’m here to help you not lose yourself.”

But Gin has no old self beyond his memories of Ran. He cannot allow himself to forget. He just can’t. So he lies on the cold ground and lets himself get consumed.


	4. Minotaur

Passing faces make up Rukia’s days. Some grateful and calm, some scarred and angry. They all bare their story. And no matter how easier it could be, she refuses indifference. She tries and cares because maybe that’s what everyone deserves, she thinks, or maybe because that’s just the kind of person she’d like to be. Someone should care. In any case, these encounters have constantly driven her to redefine herself and she’s not quite sure of what’s left anymore. 

Which is why she knows she’s fucked the moment she first spots Ichigo, lost under the subdued lights of a crappy bar. She’s been starving for something, anything, a sign to show her the way. These are two worlds which are not supposed to mesh. Yet she cannot stop herself from latching into him. 

84 days pass through an odd daily routine they devise together. She’s merely grown accustomed to him, she tells herself again and again. It’s 83 more days than what she first allowed herself, still.

*

They stand at the center of the dance floor. She throws her hands in the air and let the music sway her body. These are precious seconds when she can forget herself, and the world. But Ichigo grabs her by the waist and pulls her closer, runs his fingers through her hair. Usually, he will wait until they’re back at his place before touching her; a build up before crossing a bridge of no return. Right there, the bold neediness, his unabashed thirst for her, it sends red to her cheeks and thoughts she does not want to deal with to her mind.

That’s what a few weeks away have done, Rukia realizes with horror. She’s gone about it all wrong. She remembers the softness of his voice as he came apart under her touch. “Will you please stay?” Then the harsh edge when she started showing up less. “Too much work,” she rationalized. “A really tough case”. He called her a coward; she told him to stop being A child. Then left and spent a month avoiding him. 

He pulls her even closer now and they stop moving. “Ichigo. What are you doing?”

He sighs into her neck, nibbles at the base. “Rukia. You’ve been avoiding me and I’m tired of this. Let’s talk, Rukia.”

She untangles herself from his grip and scowls, indignant. He does not look impressed. But she’s not in the mood for this conversation, and she’s unsettled by the tone of his voice - the same he used weeks ago when asking her not to go. It’s all too much. It’s all too soon.

She recognizes a familiar face in the crowd; it snaps her out of it. He follows her hardened stare and growls as he spots him too : “Fuck, not now.” 

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

“Need help burying the body?” he smirks for a second, as casual as she has ever seen him, before resuming a more serious look. “We’re not done yet, Rukia”. 

She knows, and it sucks. Still, she can't bring herself to curse him as she slips away to run after Gin.

*

In movies she watches with Ichigo, when the bad guy metamorphoses into a monster, the hero is sent an equally powerful magical gift to defeat him. It’s a process of glory and honour, the anointing of a Chosen One. As she sees the worn-out man sitting by her side shred the last remnants of his humanity, she wishes she was in such crappy B-movie.

The process of purifying souls should be easy enough. You find the rogue ones, talk them out of their bullshitery with platitudes and promises. But unfinished business is the human condition and more often than not, Rukia is left with no choices but to fight. No magic weaponry, no ceremonials or godlike power. She grabs the knife hidden in her sleeve and stabs and slashes before the disfigured form comes fully into existence. Her blade cuts through skin and bones until there’s nothing left of Ichimaru Gin. She beats him to non-existence.

Then she dashes out of the abandoned mall, and lets the flood wash away the red that permeates her skin. It’s heavy - big, fat drops quickly soaking through her clothes. By the time she gets to the building gates, she has slowed down to a walk. 

Ichigo is standing there, waiting for her, and she’s left to wonder how the hell he found her again. He reciprocates with a questioning gaze of his own, but she does not stop. She has too much on her mind. As he calls out her name, Rukia marginally slows down though. The rain stops over her head as his hand finds hers and their fingers interlock. She does not greet him or turn to look at him though. They just keep walking.

“Do you still not want to talk about it?”

“It?” She blinks. Oh, that. Eventful night: she had almost forgotten. “No, no, you had it right. I was being childish and avoiding you.”

This is obviously not the reaction he was expecting, and he lets go of her hand in a brusque movement. He stares, brows slightly raised, then finally pleads: “Okay, something is wrong. Can you please just talk to me?” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” she whispers - a blatant lie and they both know it. She grabs his hand and lock their fingers again. “Just take me home, please. And then tomorrow, I promise...”

Saying the words would make them real and she’s not ready for that just yet. But in this world of ghosts and ghouls and slayers she has known for over a decade, it’s about time she got out of her comfort zone. It’s never too late to keep on learning, she muses. She’ll just have to start with baby steps.

“Rukia,” he calls out again, before hugging her. “Okay Rukia, let’s go home.” His arms are firm and hold her tight.   
Yes, home, she thinks. 

As they climb the first step of his building, she mumbles again: “I wouldn’t mind another drink. What do you say?”

The candid smile he flashes her makes her feel like melting into the sun. There’s no race nor plan; just one step after the other until they're home.


End file.
